Breathing Problems
by bobissa
Summary: He thinks he knows her now. Every inch of living tissue over a metal endoskeleton. Derek/Cameron, John. ONESHOT.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**Notes:** John/Cameron is my usual ship, but damn are Derek and Cam interesting, and Twit asked so nicely, so here we are. Set in early season two around the time of 'Automatic for the People.'

**Breathing Problems**

She isn't supposed to be here. To _still_ be here. Burnt with hot, white heat to dry, cold ash, she was supposed to be gone. A vapor, a memory. Not a daily reminder of why he fights. But here she sits, staring from across the table with unblinking eyes as shallow as a puddle. He can't help but stare back and try to imagine diving down through bottomless depths of ocean.

*

_She is supposed to be anywhere but here, in his arms, in his bed, and, worst of all, on his mind. Moving under his hands, she is warm where he thinks she should be cold, soft where he imagines she is hard, and woman where she ought to be machine. He is glad when she doesn't seem to look at him._

*

"You aren't eating," she says. He vaguely registers Sarah and John's voices coming from the living room, but keeps his eyes fixed on her, ignoring her words. "Your pancakes are losing heat at an infinitely increasing rate." He has no response but narrowed eyes and counts backwards from ten in his head waiting for it. Ten. Nine. It's really only a slight difference, but he notices. Eight. Her brows dip and he knows it's coming. Seven. Her head tilts to the left. He smirks then and says "seven" out loud. He only makes it to seven this time and he laughs, but the sound he lets escape his lips is more like gasping. No matter, she turns her attention to something he's sure only she can see through the window.

*

_He thinks he knows her now. Every inch of living tissue over a metal endoskeleton, he's touched or tasted. She's pliable in his hands, but she makes no sounds. Maybe she forgets to pretend to breathe. Her eyes never close, and he imagines she sees everything but him. It makes it easier to touch her. Later, when he lies in bed not sleeping and she's still there standing at the window, he can't help but wonder why it isn't more damn difficult. He never forgets to breathe._

*

"I could tell him, ya know," he says, taking a bite of pancake. She doesn't respond and he doesn't expect her to, she just keeps her eyes on his. "Would get rid of one of my problems." Another bite of pancake, more voices from the next room, and he can swear her eyes narrow just the slightest bit.

"You won't." She says it evenly and with the same tone she uses when telling them of future events, certainties.

"I could."

"You won't. You didn't." The corner of her mouth twitches and he quickly stabs his fork into an unoffending bite of pancake.

"No, I didn't," he breathes. "Not yet."

"Not yet," she agrees.

*

_She lies across his chest in the moonlight that streams in through the window and he tries not to think about his chest rising and falling, his heart beating against her cheek. He doesn't embrace her, but she lies there, frozen but warm. It doesn't work when he tries to hold his breath. His heart continues to pound making a mockery of his still chest. Eyes meet his for the first time as she rolls her head around to look at him. He finally sighs and looks away. A moment later he feels her breath on his shoulder and her breasts moving against him in a rise and fall. "Don't," he whispers and she is motionless once more._

*

"Mom, we're gonna be late!" John calls over his shoulder as he walks into the kitchen. Derek's attention snaps to his nephew and he watches as the boy's expression changes from exasperation to aggravation at the sight of he and the metal sitting together. He holds out the plate of pancakes at John's approach and the kid takes two with a look cold suspicion. With a glance between them, John stops and lets the crease in his brow deepen.

"Are you okay?" It's concern that's written all over the kid's face, and it's no shock it's not for him.

"Copasetic."

"Dictionary?" She smiles, and despite all his best efforts, John allows an amused grin to flash across his face. The brooding mask is back before he can blink, and John disappears out of the room almost as quickly.

*

_He doesn't know when she leaves; he just knows he's alone before he opens his eyes. Empty and alone, the easy way out. Things he already knows well. He only wishes he weren't so cold. So he lies curled up thinking of the future. Relying on Sarah's bad pancakes to get him through the morning. Trusting in luck to get him through another day. Expecting trouble of some kind to get him through the night. Believing in fate and the legend of John Connor to get him through life._

*

It's easy to blame her for the kid's mood lately, and mostly, he doesn't stick around too much these days to watch. He wishes in this moment, watching her stare at the doorway he's just walked through, that she were a real girl. He'd know how to hurt her then.

"I didn't tell him, but I could and he'd never forgive you."

"He'd never forgive _us_." She gets up and takes his plate. "You won't tell him." She doesn't pretend to smile or gloat in any way, or even turn back to look at him. She simply puts the dirty dish in the sink and walks out of the room. He remembers to breathe.

End.


End file.
